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Sunday, December 2, 2012

The Sailor, The Giant, and the Madman, Prologue by Jim Sterling

Rek
the Warrior drove his steed through the treacherous
slopes of the Krikton Hills, unaware his journey would bring forth an
infestation of evil that would devour his homeland, Maktear. But an awareness
of the perils ahead wouldn’t have swayed him from his course. Rek was a
mercenary with perversions far more profound than the common sadist; he could
slay a child or a feast-prepped swine with equal detachment. By no accident had
he acquired such titles as Rek the Heathen, and Rek the Remorseless.

But
savagery such as this would be needed in the Krikton Hills; a passageway no
sane man would follow. He would save a full day’s ride eluding the winding
roads below, making the inevitable confrontation with the natives worthwhile. The Kriks were a loathsome people who had propagated themselves
through generations of incest. They were repulsive, savage, and imbecilic.

But Rek
traveled with greater purpose these days. One of his harlots had borne him a child,
a son no less. Rek had never cared for the outcome of his seed before, but the
thought of rearing a barbarian in his mold brought meaning to a life, that was
otherwise filled with vile carnage.

He
moved on, fearlessly pushing his mount upwards through an unforgiving torrent,
whose drops fell through the windless storm as if they were aimed straight at
him. His steed, a beast as seemingly indifferent as he, carried on through the
muddy trails with no sound to distract it, other than the expansive drops that
pelted off its master’s armor. Rek’s suit was a monstrosity that struck fear in
his enemies a full league away. Shoulder spikes, horns and tilted facial slits
made him look more demonic than human; suiting his lust for violence quite
fittingly. It would take more than inclement weather for him to part with it.

When he
arrived at the peak of The Krikton Hills he encountered a cluster of grass huts
and mud-packed dwellings. Smoke rose from the largest of the set; he entered,
seeking a meal to tide him on his way. He kicked open the door, sword in hand,
ready to announce it was he that should be feared, and not the contrary.

But his
grand entrance was wasted on an empty hovel. Grass and mud walls supported a
shabby, bamboo and bark roof that leaked at the edges. An assemblage of chairs
and tables surrounded a fire in the middle of a dirt floor. Perched over the
blaze was a boiling pot-belly cauldron, supported by an iron tri-pod; its
contents likely responsible for the stench that stole Rek’s appetite.

At the
back of the dwelling was a door that lay fully open, teasing his curiosity,
calling him to ask why they would vacate their food and shelter with such
haste.

Rek crept through the hut towards the doorway, his sword tip well ahead
of him. As he neared the exit he began to hear screams; that of a woman. He
quickened his pace and shot out the back door to see a gathering of Kriks,
standing in the woods at the edge of a small pond. In the middle of them,
spread upon a stone slab, was a woman amidst the anguish of labor. She was a
haggardly looking girl, surrounded by company equal to her unsightliness.

They
stopped for a moment to take notice of Rek, then returned to the event at hand.
Never had he drawn such apathy, especially in full armor. The woman continued
to scream while her collection of brethren, any one of whom might be the
father, stood by doing nothing. Even Rek was taken aback by their indifference.

Poised
for battle, but rudely ignored, he readied to take leave, until he saw the
child begin to emerge. He had seen the likes before with cattle and horses, but
never a human. It seemed just as vulgar, in particular the after-birth. The
mother’s screaming came to an end, replaced by that of the infant’s, and just
like that, there was another life in the Krikton Hills where there wasn’t a
moment ago.

Rek thought he could do them, and the rest of the world a favor, by
killing it. Instead he chose to leave, hoping to avoid a moment of endearment,
a sight he had no stomach for. But instead of welcoming the infant, they tore
it from the mother’s reach, separating it from its cord before passing it
around amongst themselves. They stared and poked at it, shaking their heads,
submitting their disapproval. How hideous would this child have to be to not
meet the standards of these degenerates, Rek thought.

They
showed it to the mother and even she turned it away. Without discussion, one of
the adults took the babe and flung it towards the fire; it landed just short of
its mark on the fringe of the flames. Rek tore open his visor to confirm what
he had trouble believing. Indeed were these people depraved; but, if they
wanted to kill one of their own, then so be it; the world was better off with
one less Krik in it. What did it matter that the child would die without
knowing the warmth of its mother’s touch or consideration from its own kind? A
woman moved towards the child to further it into the flames when an epiphany
struck Rek.

“Stop!”
he commanded.

The
woman held up as Rek flew past her and scooped up the child. Convinced it
should die, the haggardly female rushed the warrior, only to meet her own
demise with a foot of Rek’s blade.

The others closed in on him, weaponless, but
fearless just the same. Rek killed several of them before finding the back door
of the hut. He grabbed a soiled rag off the ground while backing away, keeping
the point of his sword between him and the Kriks, cursing them to stay away.

Time
was precious and Rek had none of it to waste. This child may have no home with
its own, but Rek knew of a place where a discarded life was of great value. He
barreled through the front door of the hut returning to his horse, stealing a
quick glance at the child prior to mounting; then pulling back when he did. It
was diminutive and horrid to look upon. Its cheeks were hollow and the whites
of its eyes bulged like they were ready to fall out. It looked back at Rek
without a tear or a peep, even though coarse wool rubbed against its burnt
skin.

He
covered it back up, mounted his steed and headed back the way he came;
abandoning his original quest through the hills.

He rode
as hard as he could, knowing the child wouldn’t survive without food and proper
care. For hours they beat down the main road on steel shod hooves, spit and
snot spewing from the beast’s face. Then suddenly Rek yanked the reins, and
they sharply turned south onto an unworn path that was barely visible amidst
the overgrown foliage. Rek ignored the overhanging trees that swatted his
helmet as he begged more and more of the tiring steed that fought to abide its
rider’s charge. On they went through the poorly traveled path and its myriad of
turns, until finally they reached their destination.

Buried deep in the woods, surrounded by swamp,
was a judiciously sized castle, baring two towers; one with a peak and the
other an observation turret. What brick was not covered in vines was black, as
if it had been charred with fire. Rek looked at the soggy ground before him and
saw no foot prints or wheel tracks; no one had left or entered in quite
sometime. He held ground for a brief moment, questioning the sanity of his
mission; but since he’d gone to such lengths already, he decided to see it
through.

After dismounting and removing his helmet he ran to the front door: a
large two piece metal gate that looked more like the entrance to a dungeon than
a home. He banged on them until they slowly opened inwards, seemingly on their
own. A stench of damp mold, suiting the blackness within, barged into his
nostrils like an unwanted guest.

Rek
stood there for a moment, unable to recall his last encounter with fear. Then
the darkness within broke as a figure embracing a candle approached; stopping
within a foot of the entrance and the dim sunlight that breached within. Rek
could see nothing but an outline of a face; he spoke to break the unnerving
silence, since the figure seemed unwilling to.

“The…The
Mage please,” Rek pleaded. “I’ve come to see The Mage.” But there was no
response. Rek stepped a little closer and opened the bundle. The figure leaned
forward to see the child, exposing his features in the candle light for a brief
moment. Rek wheezed at the sight of the pale skinned man who was remarkably
stout for a person of such severe age.

He said
nothing as he turned and walked inward, gesturing for Rek to do the same. When
they got inside the figure raised a hand to stop Rek, while he continued on
into the darkness of the hallway before them. Rek ignored his surroundings,
denying his curiosity in fear of what he might see.

Moments
later, the candle light reappeared down a distant hallway. Two sets of
shuffling feet competed with the boom of Rek’s heart. The figure with the
candle drifted off to the side to leave Rek face to face with The Mage. He was
dressed in a black robe, tied with a black cord that draped his waist like a
dead snake.

His age
was hard to guess; his wrinkles were profound yet his hair was jet black, draping
well past his ears. Candle light flickered off his facial rings; two in each
ear and one in his chin that dangled a hand span below.

“Do I
know you?”he asked, in a voice that was coarse as wool rope.

“I am
uncertain my lord. My name is Rek. I’ve brought something I trust is of great
value to you.” Rek opened the bundle and held it out for him to see.

“Of
what purpose would an ugly child provide me?”

Rek’s
hands trembled, sensing The Mage’s impatience.

“I’ve
taken him from his family my lord; they cast him into the flames upon moment of
his birth.”

The Mage stepped forward, “And his mother,
what of his mother, did she feed him, did she touch him, has he been
contaminated by her suckle?”

“This
child has known no love or touch of warmth from its mother, this I swear.”

“Then
you have done well, Rek the Warrior; I shall keep the child and bestow upon you
my favor.”

“Thank
you, milord.”

The
Mage took the child from him, careful not to touch its skin.

“May I ask what this favor might be milord?”

The
Mage turned back to him, annoyed with his insistence,

“You
spend time in the lower valleys, do you not?”

“Aye I
do, I extort food from the farmland just east of the river.”

“This
spring I will reach out to the valleys, cursing their crops. For this season
alone, I shall overlook yours. I trust that is just reward.”

“Of
course milord, it was honor enough just to save this child for you.” Rek said as
he backed his way out of the entrance.

The Mage had taken two steps back into the
castle before bringing his gait still.

“This
is true,” he said, turning back to Rek. “Your endeavors, although self-serving,
could one day be construed as heroic.”

“By who,
milord?”

“By the
child,” The Mage answered as he shuffled his feet closer to the warrior. Rek’s gaze
went blank as he watched The Mage raise his free hand. Gnarled fingers, poised
like they were broken were aimed at him. He stared fearful for a moment, then
staggered sideways before flipping off his helmet.

“My
eyes!” he yelled, dropping to his knees.

“I am
sorry Rek the warrior, but if this child is to fulfill the role for which you
saved him for, then he cannot know the affable sentiment of a savior. Your
intent was righteous, but to complete its discharge, you must die.”

Rek’s
mouth opened, as if a scream was due, but none was forthcoming. His hands
wavered over his eyes and throat as if he wanted to clutch them, but they ached
from a pain he knew he couldn’t relieve.

Then
Rek went still, his mouth lay agape and his hands fell at his side. An image of
the son he would no longer be able to raise flashed briefly through his mind as
the deep red blood that had gathered in his skull, burst from his eyes. Rek
collapsed in a pool of his own blood, the only puddle in the castle’s
courtyard.

The
Mage eased his way back into the castle, studying the child as he did, then he
turned to his servant.

“He’s
near death, get him some goat milk, treat his wounds but be sure to wear
gloves. This child will never know the warmth of our touch. He shall sleep in
the solitude of the castle’s depths in the room next to The Book.”

“The
Book of Being, my Mage?”

“The
very one; its emanations will help enrich the child, he will need its strength
for the path I propose for him.”

“Will
you teach him the ways, my Mage?”

“He
will learn the elements of dark magic, the merits of torture, and the means to
prolong his life, as you and I have done. He will learn to ignore the gods that
other men choose to worship. As an apostle of The Usurper he will need to be
powerful. The Grand Spirit will surely bring forth a virtuous entity to oppose
him.

“What do you foresee, milord?”

“I do
not know, The Grand Spirit works in mysterious ways; an enchantment, a charmed
artifact, a weapon, a being worthy of contestation, it could be anything. If
this child lives, I will teach him everything I know, and name him Maeldroth.
He shall be a bringer of death.”

“If he
dies,” The Mage took a shallow breath, “he shan’t be missed.”

***

Jim Sterlingcurrently
lives in Burlington, Ontario, where he has owned and operated a print business
for twenty years. A lifetime of affection towards heroic characters has fuelled
his drive to complete his epic dark fantasy, The Sailor, The Giant, and the
Madman.

Brian Henry has been a book editor, writer, and creative writing instructor for more than 25 years. He teaches creative writing at Ryerson University. He also leads weekly creative writing courses in Burlington, Mississauga, Oakville and Georgetown and conducts Saturday workshops throughout Ontario. His proudest boast is that he has helped many of his students get published.